


A To-Go Bag

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Biggerson's, Cursing Because Dean Deals With Stupidity on the Daily, Dean is So Done, Dean is a mess, Fast Food, Fast food worker Castiel, First Meetings, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gas-N-Sip, Humor, M/M, Police Officer Dean Winchester, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 12:05:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15533862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: The man glances down at the name card on his bright red polo. It attracts Dean’s eyes almost as much as Castiel’s attract the light from the sky—glazed over blue like Old Baldy Mountain on a morning hike—and smiles a little softer this time. “Cas will suit just fine, Dean.”“Dean.” Well, that was about as loud and as jarring as his siren. “I mean… how did you know my name?”Cas either finds him endearing or has the best customer service skills, because he retains his smile and nods. “Your card.”Dean narrows his eyes before realizing that’s both a statement and a request. “Oh, right. Thanks.”





	A To-Go Bag

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to my fic First Time for Everything, but you don't have to read it to follow this.

This isn’t what Dean signed up for in police academy.

Although writing a parking ticket is better than writing a police report, would it kill someone to kill someone? Bare _minimum,_ someone setting something on fire. At least then, he’ll see Lieutenant Lafitte from Station 12 in uniform. It’s amazing those grey and brown matchsticks for facial hair haven’t set the Midwest in flames…

“Hey! Officer!”

Dean snaps his head to the man yelling at him through his windshield. He’s waving a yellow slip of paper in his right hand—a stark contrast to the red spray-tan coating his face.

Grabbing his leftover burger from his passenger’s seat, Dean munches while watching the scene unfold from the comfort of his AC. That is, until a sour taste hits his mouth. Probably that extra Thousand Island dressing he insisted on at the drive-thru. He really should take his lunch break. But the stupidity never rests in Sioux Falls—particularly the stupidity that surrounds Richard Roman Enterprises and their limited parking—so neither does he.

He spits out the contents and balls it up before tossing it aside. That’s when the guy smashes his hands against the hood of the car. It may not be his ’67 Chevy, but Dean still gets peeved. “Alright, that’s enough,” he mutters, throwing his door open. He loops his thumbs in his holster and saunters up to the gentleman, taking advantage of his bowlegs. “What’s going on, sir?”

“You tell me, you’re the one who gave me a parking ticket, you asshole!”

“Okay sir,” Dean says coolly, holding up his hands, “there’s no need to get angry.”

“ _Angry?!”_ he guffaws. “I’m ten _miles_ past angry! Who gives someone a ticket for parking on the side of the road?!”

Dean blinks a few times. “Sir, you parked in front of a stop sign.”

“So? I’m driving a sedan, not a monster trunk—you can still see the damn thing!”

“ _So_ , it’s illegal.”

The man scoffs, shoving Dean with his shoulder as he strides past him with an underhand “fuck you”.

In a second, he’s pinned against the hood of Dean’s car.

“You can’t arrest me!” the man barks when the jangle of Dean’s cuffs sound. “I’m protected under the First Amendment!”

“And now you’re protected under my shiny new handcuffs.”

“Another straggler?”

Dean cranes his head to Charlie and chuckles when the man spits out more profanities. He slams the guy into his car again. “Just another slow day. You know how it is. How’s Gilda?”

“No more Gilda. I’m all about Dorothy now.”

“You upgraded to Judy Garland?”

“That’s what I said! She even has the red hair and terrier. Super adorable, by the way. The terrier, I mean. And her too.”

“Does she know you exist?”

“Patience, young Jedi,” Charlie says, “you can’t find love in a to-go bag.”

“Depends how good the fries are.”

“This is true. Well, I better get going if I wanna make it home in time for the _Star Wars_ marathon on TV.”

Charlie gestures to her car in the parking garage. It’s a huge garage, but her car’s so ancient, the Mayans can see it from the future.  Not only is it bright yellow, but it’s a bright yellow ’74 AMC Gremlin X. The paint’s chipping off, but the rainbow equality sticker on the bumper and the Hogwarts one on the right-hand corner of her tinted back window Dean would begrudgingly mention did it not include his second favorite curse word in the quote (“Not today MuggleFucker”) are still hugging the vehicle by some higher power.

“And by that you mean you’re gonna go to Dorothy’s work before she leaves and pretend like you’ve been walking around for the past twenty minutes looking for the bathroom.”

“I’ll have you know I have more decency than that… and she has one-way windows.”

“What does she do?”

“She’s a licensed therapist.”

“Oo, that’ll be a hard heart to hack,” Dean comments, not leaving her eyes to twist the guy’s wrist when he tries a backwards headbutt. Not hard enough to break it, but enough for him to belly-flop onto the hood of the car, which is no doubt burning from the afternoon sun beating down on it for a good couple hours. “But I believe in you. Godspeed.”

Charlie salutes him with the wag of her pointer finger. He watches her cherry red hair whip behind her before shifting his focus back to Johnny B. Good, auditioning for his big break in a Whitesnake video. “Alright, pal,” he snarls, shoving him towards the backseat of his car, “off to the station.”

 

 

“Hi, can I get a Turducken sandwich, no pickles. No lettuce or tomato, either. In fact, just hold anything that comes from the ground. And extra of anything that’s spit out of a machine and transported on a conveyor belt here… and a medium fry.”

“Alright. Will that be all, sir?”

Dean’s eyes shoot up. He’s definitely not expecting the voice that comes out of those weathered speakers. It’s like he’s suddenly in a Wes Craven film, co-starring alongside a much sexier Roger L. Jackson. It’s raspy, but sultry at the same time. “Uhm… yeah, yes. That’ll do. And an A&W for the combo, actually.”

“You got it,” Ghostface replies, “your total is 7.74 at the window.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, somewhat anxiously pulling up. He blames his horniness on _Ghost._ There’s no way he wasn’t going to watch it last night on ABC. Patrick Swayze’s the man. And Demi Moore, that hair, that rack… everything about that movie screams from the afterlife and beyond for him to watch it.

At least, that’s the excuse he makes before seeing the voice behind the speaker.

“H-hi.”

The man’s face splits into a grin that unfolds his lips like a Persian rug following a foreclosure. “Hello.”

“Oh right.” Dean fishes for his wallet in his back pocket and knocks over his Diet Coke. It slithers down the side of the passenger seat and makes home in a crevice he can’t see, but will likely exist as a bad smell later. That’s definitely going on his card. Whenever his fingers decide to grasp his wallet—seriously, where is it?!

Naturally, when he fetches his wallet, the card is stuck in its slot—so stuck, when he finally yanks it out, he slams his hand against the steering wheel. The horn goes off, startling a few birds.

Fortunately, the man doesn’t say any more. He just takes his card and swipes it.

“Thanks, uh… Cas-Castiel?”

The man glances down at the name card on his bright red polo. It attracts Dean’s eyes almost as much as Castiel’s attract the light from the sky—glazed over blue like Old Baldy Mountain on a morning hike—and smiles a little softer this time. “Cas will suit just fine, Dean.”

“ **Dean**.” Well, that was about as loud and as jarring as his siren. “I mean… how did you know my name?”

Cas either finds him endearing or has the best customer service skills, because he retains his smile and nods. “Your card.”

Dean narrows his eyes before realizing that’s both a statement and a request. “Oh, right. Thanks.” He awkwardly waves his newly retrieved card to show Cas. The food follows shortly thereafter. He sets it on the floorboard on the passenger’s side and the drink in his _lap_ this time before putting on his best smile. “Thanks again.”

“Have a good day.”

Dean waits to park before slamming his head into the steering wheel.

~.~

Dean sees Cas a few times after that, but doesn’t say anything beyond his order and a thank you.

He keeps his drink spillage to a blessed minimum.

~.~

_“Officer Winchester, how’s crowd control on 63 rd?”_

“We’re covered on security,” Dean chimes in to his superior, Bobby Singer, over the com. “We may need a couple more cars out here, though. We have a few disgruntled car owners.”

“ _Copy that. I’ll send ya the itinerary in 5.”_

Dean retracts his finger as, like a cork to a champagne bottle, another flaming chunk of plaster flies through the air. Dean takes a step forward and continues directing the frenzy of cars and people.

He wasn’t the first one on the scene—that’s obvious the way the flames have made their personal cookout in the sky. He hates to compare it to a Claude Monet painting, but despite the millions in property damage and the lives it could’ve taken, not to mention the sharp smell, it’s a rare and weirdly beautiful sight. No wonder pyromaniacs get a kick out of fire. It’s like a twisted sunset.

One that Lieutenant Laffite is skilled at putting out, in full-uniform, thirty feet from Dean. To sweeten the pot is… well, _him._ Cast from the hose he’s gripping is a rainbow, starting from the outline of where a roof was and ending just behind his helmet. It’s a perfect scene, and even more perfect a few seconds later, when he slams into Dean racing back to the truck, except…

Nothing.

Dean feels—the front bumper of a Toyota Camry ramming into his thigh.

“Hey, buddy! You can’t run people over—there’s an order to these things!”

The lead investigator into _Roger Rabbit_ ’s framing thrusts his egg-shaped head out his car window. He’s got one heavy arm draped over the frame, clutching a pack of cigarettes, and in the other inside the car, more limply, holding a lit cigarette. “What is this, Biggerson’s?! In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a fuckin’ fire!”

“Really? I thought you were just breathing!” Dean yells back. “Ease on the fucking cigarettes and the attitude or I’m gonna put out an APB on another arsonist!”

That’s when it hits him. Well… that and the secondhand smoke from the fire.

He knows he’s shifted his focus from the traffic too long, because Danny DeVito’s honking for his attention.

~.~

Judging by the flying heads, Dean probably barges in like he’s breaking his cover on a sting, but he doesn’t care. It’s not like anyone’s tossing him dirty looks—he _is_ a cop, after all. If anything, everyone’s glancing around them, wondering who’s about to get busted. And Dean does skim his eyes over a few stragglers.

Metatron’s one of them, leaning against the wall in the back booth like a mouse, basking in his personal trashy heaven. His oversized, ratty brown coat kisses his burger as he brings it to his mouth. He sees Dean and frowns. Metatron used to be the Donald Trump of Sioux Falls before Dick Roman bought him out. It almost makes Dean feel bad for him, but the only difference between Metatron and Dick are the size of their dongs. They’re equally as greedy, nasty, and have stolen just as much hard-earned money from low-income families.(That and he did try stabbing Dean once.)

On the opposite end, sitting at a table pressed against the window is Gadreel, who Dean does feel sorry for. It happens to a lot of folks raised on the Southside, dating as far back as the seventies: Their friends, high off their parents’ ecstasy and their own indignation with the Northside government, form a gang instead of a _Rage Against the Machine_ cover band. They start by coercing people like Gadreel, who, according to Dean’s father was a straight-laced senior soccer star with a scholarship flying into his goal post, by threatening the lives of his family. Now he’s the same age as Dean, sipping on lukewarm coffee in a fast-food restaurant with only the black leather jacket drooping on his shoulders to his name.

Quiet chatter arises when Dean reaches the counter, despite the Asian kid at the register’s lack of amusement. Though the dark circles under his eyes try to deceive, he can’t be older than eighteen. He also has the bangs to pass for a fourteen-year-old transitioning into his Goth lifestyle. “Welcome to… you know. Can I help you?”

“Yeah, I’ll get a Turducken with no pickles. No lettuce, tomato…”

“Wait, did you _want_ tomato?”

“Yeah, no tomato.”

“That was a contradicting statement.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “I’m sorry?”

“You said ‘yeah’, followed by a ‘no’. Which is it?”

“No lettuce, no tomato, or anything that comes from the ground. Extra of anything that’s factory-made, a medium fry, and an… A&W, was it?” Dean’s left to gape. Cas meets his vampiric coworker with a toothy smile. “I’ve placed the order already, Kevin, no worries.”

On his way to the back, Kevin slams his visor on the tile like he’s on _WWE: Smackdown_ before very gently picking it up and placing it back on his head.

Dean leans into the counter. “Is he okay?”

Cas nods. “He’s good. He just gets stressed easy. And he has finals coming up.”

“I’ll have to send him a ‘Good Luck’ card when he moves out of the house.”

“Right? God, what I’d kill to come home to a cooked meal and _Dungeons & Dragons_ again.”

“You played _Dungeons & Dragons?”_

Cas hides behind his visor, exposing thick brown hair that looks like it’s been styled with Biggerson’s grease. “You know… just as an example…”

It’s a rare occasion: Lifting are the corners of Dean’s lips, framing the freckles scattered at random across his cheekbones. They’re something he’s always been self-conscious of, since he gets rosy when he smiles and that only highlights them. Being a police officer is definitely handy for sucking the joy out of his life. Oh the things he’s seen… “Right. How did you remember my order, by the way?”

Cas lifts his head and shrugs. That’s when Dean notices, of the many pins on Cas’s black suspenders (seriously, they treat their employees like Boy Scouts or something), on the left strap, one with three solid colors. It’s definitely a flag of some sort. Dean’s never seen a flag so colorful. The top color line is a hot pink, followed by yellow and light blue. Whatever it represents, it’s refreshing from the American flag tailing every brother and his father’s truck bed. “I have a good memory.”

“Is that so?” Dean asks, feeling a little braver.

“Indeed,” Cas confirms as he’s handed Dean’s takeout bag. “There’s a little something extra for you in there, no charge.”

Dean accepts the bag with mild skepticism and leaves with an awkward hand wave that puts his entrance to shame. But he can’t seem to care when he slides back into his car, pulling out his order, to find eight extra lids at the bottom of the bag.

~.~

Dean downs his fifth large Diet Coke of the day. He didn’t have time to stop at Biggerson’s due to a last-minute shift. Southside kids entering and exiting the local Gas n’ Sip since 10pm. They’re likely not stirring up anything other than a blue Slushie, but he’s parked in the lot across the street just in case.

Sure enough, all faith Dean had in the Southside is abandoned and not even twenty minutes later, the alarm sounds and a few Greasers bolt with a case of beer and doughnuts in tow.

Dean hurries to set his drink down, and spills half of it in the same exact spot a couple weeks prior. He sighs, fumbling in the glove compartment for one of the 87 spare lids to slap on there before firing up his siren.

~.~

“You look like hell.”

Dean rolls his head to Cas sitting across from him, which only makes it throb harder. “Damn, I knew I should’ve used setting spray.”

“Setting spray?”

Cas puts something on the table in front of him as Dean takes a sip from his coffee. When he pulls his hand away, eight lids come into view. “You know I’m drinking inside, right?”

“I never know with you,” Cas says, “the other day, you put mustard on your fries.”

“Maybe I wanted mustard on my fries.”

“I’ve never seen you put mustard on your fries. I’ve never seen _anyone_ put mustard on their fries.”

Dean sighs. Across from them is Gadreel with his own cup raised. They do a silent salute before Dean takes another careful sip. He wants to slam it down like no one’s business, but he’s had enough slamming for the week. Turns out Southside kids are tougher than their ego. And four hours of sleep does no favors for his aching bones. “Setting spray,” he says again, “it’s that stuff women use to keep their makeup in place.”

Cas nods slowly. “Right. And how do you know this?”

“Ex-girlfriends. Lots of impromptu trips to Sephora. In the dead of summer. In an air condition-less car. The universe practically thrust me into that store.”

“I would’ve loved to see you in a makeup store.”

“Oh if you ever visit the station, the guys’ll be the first ones to tell you about it,” Dean promises. “One guy’s wife spotted me there once. He hasn’t let up on the teasing since.”

“Rightfully so,” Cas scoffs with a tiny smile, “I’m sure you looked like a fish out of water.”

“Oh I was in an entirely different _tank.”_ There’s a comfortable pause Dean uses to take another sip. “Your pin.”

“Hmm?”

“That flag pin,” Dean says, gesturing to it. “I know it’s the pansexual flag. Or… well, I _didn’t_ know until it was 2am and I knew I wasn’t getting sleep for a while. ‘Attraction to more than two genders’. I didn’t even know there were more than two. That’s what growing up in Sioux Falls does to a person, I guess.” Dean’s eyes snap open with the realization of what he just said. “Sorry… I don’t know why I brought that up. That’s not… you know, it’s your business—”

Cas cuts Dean off with the wave of his hand, and is that a smile? “Dean, it’s okay, that’s why I wear it—you know, pride and all that,” he says, tilting his head a little as if to get a better look at Dean. _No_ angle is flattering for him right now, but such as life. “I’m… actually surprised you looked into it. No one ever really bothers to ask any more questions when they hear men and women are involved. They just think you’re confused or a…”

“Rebel?”

Cas’s smile drips from his lips like the perspiration sliding down the side of his lemonade cup. “You… you’re bisexual?”

“No, I’m Jefferson Davis, haven’t you heard?”

Cas’s smile is quick to return. “Right. Sorry, I just… wouldn’t have…. that’s cool.”

“What? A white male police officer in Sioux Falls doesn’t fit the stereotype?”

Cas shakes his head with a laugh, “No, actually. I guess I need to rewatch _Freier Fall.”_

“God, what I’d do to see a movie again,” Dean groans, “you know, like, in the theatres. Did you know I haven’t even caught up with the last two _Mission Impossibles?_ I’ve let Tom down.”

Cas shifts in his seat a little. “Well… would you like to see the latest one sometime?” He scratches his neck. “You know, like, with me?”

“No.”

“You—I mean, I… you know, you could’ve sugarcoated that answer a little more…”

“No,” Dean repeats, shaking his head. “This is _not_ how I wanted this to happen. _I’ve_ been working up the courage this whole time to ask _you_ out, and you go and just… _do it?!”_

Cas’s face immediately softens, though the creases in his mouth remain for a big, gummy smile. “Sorry… I’ll… let’s start over. Act like I never said anything. Go ahead.”

Dean exhales before smacking his lips together. He takes in Cas’s open-armed gesture and cracks a small smile of his own. “Cas?”

“Yes, that’s me, I’m listening.”

“Will… you… I don’t know… like, maybe, uh, go on a date with me sometime or s-something?”

“Why did you intentionally stammer?”

“I figured that’s exactly how it was gonna come out.”

“Ah, authenticity. I like it.”

Dean drops his head as his own eyes go wide.

“Oh right, and yes, I would absolutely love to.”

Throwing his own arms up to make a point, Dean appropriately knocks over his cup of coffee. The two of them watch as the lid busts open and coffee trickles out to fill the cracks in-between the tile.

 

 

Needless to say, Cas sneaks extra lids into the movie theatre that following weekend.


End file.
